


Dressed to Kill

by 1863



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Helping someone get dressed, M/M, Suits, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21628996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: There are only so many options a man has when it comes to white tie.
Relationships: John Wick/Winston
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47
Collections: 300bpm Flash Exchange November 2019





	Dressed to Kill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychomachia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/gifts).



“This brings back memories.”

Winston’s voice is quiet as he gives John a slow, thorough look up and down. He can see John watching him in the mirror and knows that John is taking note of every place where his gaze lingers: the tattoo on his back, the bullet wounds on his shoulder, the old scars on the backs of his hands. And —

John’s lips curve into the barest hint of a smile.

And his ass, too.

“How long has it been?” Winston asks. “I can’t quite recall the last time you came to me for this.”

“It’s been a while.”

A faint flush spreads over John’s skin and yes, Winston thinks, John knows exactly how long it’s been. He just doesn’t want to say so and give up what scraps of leverage he still has left.

“Well, I’m glad you came back to me,” Winston replies, “however long it’s been.” John’s gaze sharpens but Winston pretends not to notice, refusing to give any indication of whether or not he phrased it like that on purpose. “I do so enjoy this part of the job.”

He takes another moment to admire John’s almost-naked form. John has been serving the Table for years now and it most definitely shows; all scars and solid muscle, considerably more than there was before. The last time Winston saw him like this, John was pale and lean — a little faster, perhaps, but nowhere near as strong. And nowhere near as dangerous, either.

Winston turns and contemplates the rack of clothing by the wall. He’d requested a number of items but truth be told, the choices were all but made as soon as John asked him for help. After all, there are only so many options a man has when it comes to white tie.

“Shirt first,” he says to himself, pulling one off a hanger. “Plain, I think, rather than pleated.” He turns back to John and steps closer, until they're face to face.

John stares at him for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he takes the shirt from Winston’s hands and slips it on. But he leaves it hanging open, the look on his face a little expectant — and, perhaps, a little hopeful, too.

Winston obliges him and starts doing up the buttons. He takes great care to not even brush the bare skin that’s so close to his fingers and when John realises what he's doing — or rather, not doing — John's breathing becomes minutely less even. Winston suppresses a smile. Still so impatient, he thinks, even after all these years.

Slacks are next — black, of course, with twin braids down the side of each leg. 

“Wait,” Winston orders, when John steps into them and starts tucking his shirt in. The slacks are still undone, barely clinging to John's hips, and Winston feels a certain heat flood his veins when John obediently goes still.

“You changed your mind?” 

It’s a question with more than one subject and Winston is surprised by John’s apparent uncertainty — it’s been years, yes, but Winston would never turn him away. Not then, not now, and not any time after this one, should John ask again.

“Of course not,” Winston replies. He pauses there, letting John hear the answers to all of his questions. “But you asked me for my help, Jonathan, and I never do anything by halves.”

He grabs the front of John's slacks and pulls him forward, hard. But the total lack of resistance is unexpected and John ends up pressed right against him, from chest down to thigh, and even through the layers of cotton and wool Winston can feel the heat of John’s flushed skin beneath them.

“I know,” John says. His mouth is barely an inch away. “That’s why I asked.”

“Is that also why you didn’t just ask for help about the dresscode, but also to help you — and I quote — ‘get dressed?’”

John doesn’t smile, not quite, but his eyes do brighten a little, and it’s all the answer Winston needs.

He reaches around John’s hips, forcing John to lean into him even more, and starts tucking the shirt in himself. Winston takes his time, smoothing his hands over the expanse of John’s back, up and down his sides, across his stomach and chest. John says nothing, just watches with heavy-lidded eyes as Winston’s wandering hands all but feel him up. 

Like everything else about him, John’s strength isn’t showy. No chiselled abs or bulging biceps, but Winston can still feel the muscle moving under his palms, shifting beneath John's heated skin. Like tectonic plates, Winston thinks, accidentally-on-purpose sweeping his thumb over a nipple and getting a quiet gasp in response. Unseen but with the potential to reduce the whole world to rubble.

When the shirt is in place Winston buttons up the waistband and reaches for the zipper. John takes a careful, deep breath as Winston slowly pulls the tab up, staring straight ahead and not glancing down even once.

“I must say, Jonathan,” Winston murmurs, watching the flush spread down John’s neck, “you have a great deal more self-control now than you did the last time you were here.”

“I learned my lesson.” There’s the slightest hint of strain in John’s voice and Winston can’t stop another smile when he hears it. “You’re a… a good teacher.”

“Is that why it’s been so long?” Winston briefly steps away to retrieve the cufflinks he’d chosen. They’re from his own collection — platinum, inlaid with mother of pearl and a single, perfect diamond on each face. John lifts an arm and silently offers his wrist, so swiftly and readily that Winston doesn’t have time to conceal the approval in his eyes. “You wanted the time to... improve?”

John doesn’t answer, but he does go very still as Winston bends his head to fasten the cufflink. He leans down, very close — so close that John must be able to feel his breath ghosting across his knuckles.

Winston lifts his head.

“Tell me,” he insists. “What have you been doing all this time?”

John looks him in the eye and licks his lips.

“Practicing," he replies.

Winston watches as something starts to burn in John’s dark eyes, steadily intensifying until he can practically feel the heat against his own face.

 _Practicing_. John’s single-mindedness is absolute; he never ever stops until a job is done, until his goals are met. Did he practice alone, Winston can't help but wonder, or with a partner? Multiple partners? With tools and toys, or nothing but his own bare hands? 

“You’ll have to show me,” Winston says. He takes John’s other hand and starts fastening the second cufflink. “So I can see for myself just how far you’ve come.”

“I’d be happy to demonstrate.”

“Mmm,” Winston agrees, amused and pleased and horrifically turned on. “I’m sure you would be.”

He hands over a pair of shoes and socks and leaves John to put them on while he chooses a waistcoat — one that’s pure, snow white and cut very low. Winston buttons it up quickly once John has it on but his hands linger, fingertips tracing the edge of the vest and the line of buttons down John's shirt. He brushes over a nipple again, a light and barely-there tease, but when he glances up John is staring openly at his mouth now and Winston knows this can’t last for much longer.

“What’s next?” John asks eventually. His voice is very low. 

“Your tie.”

A bow tie, to be precise — the same shade of blinding white as the waistcoat. Winston takes his time arranging John’s collar around it, letting his fingers brush the nape of John’s neck and the side of his throat as he goes, knowing they're sensitive spots for him. John swallows hard at that and Winston is immediately distracted by the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing, by the sudden sense-memory of John swallowing hard around something else.

“What’s the matter, Winston?” John asks, barely above a whisper, when Winston abruptly goes still. “Do you need some extra time to practice, too?”

Winston resumes tying the bow, the movements so familiar to him that he doesn’t need to look at the tie — he stares John down instead. It’s a rare day when anyone can intimidate John Wick into breaking eye contact but Winston does so now, John lowering his gaze in silent acknowledgement of his transgression. Winston has to take a breath — it was a thrill the first time this happened, when John was still new; it’s an exponentially bigger rush of power now that John is a veritable legend.

“A prudent move, Jonathan."

John looks up again at that, the heat in his eyes even more intense now. But he says nothing, and Winston helps him into his tailcoat in a silence so charged, every point of contact between them seems to set off a chain reaction that neither of them can quite control. 

John allows Winston to manoeuver his body this way and that and Winston’s heart starts to race; Winston slowly runs his palms over the lapels of John’s coat and John's breathing goes ragged. And then Winston leans in to adjust the tie, pulling slowly on the loops until they're perfectly symmetrical, and John stares at his mouth again before he makes a tiny noise — a wordless plea that forces Winston to drop his hands and take several steps back. 

It’s a sound he filed away for safe-keeing as soon as he heard it the first time, a sound that he remembers whenever he needs a swift release. And it always works, _always_ , whether he’s in the shower or in the bathtub or lying in bed; whether he’d been thinking of other people or only of the man still staring at him now.

It’s the exact sound John makes when Winston is deep, deep inside him, when he's being forced to stay right on the edge. When John is so desperate to come yet so determined to hold out that words become impossible — useless even, because no words could possibly convey the depth of what he needs.

It's the sound, Winston knows, of John losing control.

Winston takes an unsteady breath. John is still staring at him with that burning look in his eyes, practically shaking with suppressed need, but he stays where he is and Winston knows he won't come any closer until he's explicitly asked to.

And oh, Winston is tempted to ask. So very, very tempted. 

But John still has work to do, and it won’t reflect well on either of them if he doesn’t even make it to the party. Some things — some very few things — are more important than Winston reacquainting himself with the private side of John Wick.

He gestures for John to turn and look into the mirror.

“Well?” John asks, when he does as he’s told and sees the results of Winston's efforts. His voice is steady but more than a little rough, and Winston has to take another breath when he hears it. “How do I look?”

And Winston — Winston doesn’t even try to hide the possessive gleam in his eyes.

“Lethal, Jonathan,” he murmurs. “Positively lethal.”

John’s lips quirk a little. “I’m not even armed yet.”

“Oh, but you are,” Winston replies, drinking in the sight of him. “Trust me, you are.”

John turns to look at him properly, face to face, eye to eye.

“Is it lethal for you too?”

“Maybe not lethal,” Winston demurs, unable to resist stepping closer again. He brushes a non-existent speck of lint from John’s shoulder. “But it certainly isn’t harmless, either.”

For another long, loaded moment, they stare at each other in silence, until John’s gaze drops once more to Winston’s mouth. There’s barely a handwidth between them; all either of them has to do is lean in.

“Winston —”

“You’ll be late, Jonathan,” Winston interrupts, “if you don’t get going soon.”

John inhales sharply but takes a step backwards at once. “Right. Of course.” He takes another deep breath before he adds, formal and polite, “Thank you for your help, Winston.”

“Not at all.” Winston gives him another slow once-over. “I’m always happy to help you get what you need.”

John cuts him a glance but doesn’t otherwise reply. He’s almost at the door already when Winston speaks again.

“Do be careful, though,” he says. “I would hate for your suit to get ruined while you work. A lot of skill — and coins — went into making it, you know.”

John goes still, then half-turns back, a question in his eyes. 

“But if it must get damaged,” Winston adds with a small, sharp smile, “I’d much rather ruin it myself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” John says slowly, as the look in his eyes morphs from question to promise. “I’ll come back as soon as I’m done.”

“Of course you will.” Winston smiles again and nods to the door. “Enjoy your party, Jonathan.”

Less than a minute later and Winston is alone in the empty, silent suite, a familiar sense of anticipation already buzzing in his veins. He makes himself a drink with the bottle John asked for when he first checked in — bourbon, of course — and settles down in an armchair by the window. There are other things he could be doing but Winston knows there’s no point in starting them now.

If John's reputation is anything to go by, he won’t be out for long.

**Author's Note:**

> Song prompt - [Pink Dressed Man - Divide and Kreate](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CU2ZyOinmy4)


End file.
